Boiling Point
by Thief Of Waters
Summary: The results of taking on King's story prompt of the gender-swapped stalker story. Several minor details are changed, but the story is the same.


Making tea always created a tense atmosphere. The brew afterwards was calming and soothing, but the preparation was sheer anticipation. After putting the kettle on the stove, everyone was waiting, ready to jump up at the first sign of the cooking implement's pained shriek. It was rather nerve-wracking, when you thought about it.

After a lifetime of making tea, Richard had grown accustomed to the habits of his stove and kettle, and no longer waited nervously around the kitchen. However, this wasn't the stove or the kettle he was used to – the new house was still foreign to him.

He hated the house. Not because of anything in it, but because of what it represented to him. Fear, flight. Not to mention that the place smelled horrible. Either the carpet of the wallpaper reeked of some intense, musty scent today. He needed to check that out – it hadn't smelled like this on moving day.

Richard slipped into one of the few pieces of furniture he had set up already, a two-person sofa. Sure, this place was a sanctuary, but he would rather have never needed a sanctuary in the first place. Life's like that, isn't it? No matter how things turn out, we always focus on what _could have _happened if we changed the past.

Nell was still at school, even at five in the afternoon. With all the confusion at home after the arrest of her mother, she had taken to finding her own sanctuary in the school library until late. On the bright side, she was getting all her homework done. Honestly, he was more surprised that his daughter's classmates weren't making her life hell. News travels fast in a small town, and high-school-age pitchers have big ears. Those pitchers are also usually very cruel.

Or maybe she just didn't tell him about her problems.

Either she didn't think he'd understand or didn't want to overburden him. Either way, it just served to make him feel more and more distanced from his child.

There was a creaking noise in the upstairs hall. This place really needed some fixing up.

Richard briefly thought about doing some work – maybe actually acting on his desire to fix the place up – but in the end his laziness won and he turned on the television. (Of course _that _was already connected – priorities, priorities.)

Nell had apparently been watching the news last night. Now the desk of formally-dressed teleprompter slaves was reporting on an incident in the local prison. Three inmates in the female section had somehow overtaken their guards and escaped. He took "overtaken" to mean "killed" – they never really used the word "kill" or "die", unless they were talking about the main subject of the story. A girl who is murdered is "killed", and an unimportant guard is "overtaken".

Richard sighed as he remembered why he normally didn't watch the news channels: There was apparently nothing newsworthy in the world that wasn't tragic, disastrous, or just overall depressing.

The creaking returned, but this time it was the louder, continuous noise the staircase made as you walked on it. His mind made a sudden connection. Instantly, Richard's finger slammed down on the _Power_ button. His heart seemed to stop along with the TV. He didn't bother to call out _Nell? That you? _It wasn't. He was sure of that.

His heart resumed its beating at twice the speed it had been before as the creaking stopped, giving way to muffled _clunks._ The sound of someone walking in the hallway.

_Burglar alarm – I never installed it, did I?_

_ Please, it wouldn't do any good. This isn't a burglar._

_ I don't know that._

_ Yes, yes I do._

He tried to reason with himself, but that was about as effective as throwing a blanket on a mass forest fire. He knew who it was.

It is really amazing how much productivity and rationality ceases when we're afraid. Doing just about the worst thing to do in a situation like this, Richard froze.

"Ricky." The musky scent intensified the point of being nauseating, and he realized: Of course. Jane would never go anywhere without her horrible perfume. Not even a prison break.

"How did you get a key?" The question broke his paralysis, and he whipped around. Jane was gorgeous, healthy, smiling, intelligent – the girl you can't wait to take home to mother. She was also psychotic, violent, and narcissistic. A real shame.

That gorgeous, smiling face darkened. His ex-wife looked quite offended at the suggestion that locks could pose any sort of challenge to her. "I didn't _need _one."

_Of course._ If she could get out of an institution, she could certainly get into his new house.

The smile returned to her face. It was so hideous once you learned to read what lurked behind it. "This is such a wonderful home – needs some furnishing, though." The couch had hidden her lower body. Now Jane began to raise her arms. "Unlike where I've been staying, where it's rather _boring. _And you know what? I've missed you, Ricky."

The briefest flash of something sharp was enough to get Richard out of his chair and vaulting towards the kitchen. He had his own sharp things there.

"And look at this!" Jane called from behind him, "You're ignoring me again! Was I just _never _good enough for you? And let me guess – I'm _still _not good enough?"

Her last words were drowned out by a sudden high-pitched shriek, and both ex-husband and ex-wife jumped. As soon as he recovered from the small shock, Richard saw opportunity and grabbed it on the heat-proof handle.

Jane skipped through the door, pouting. "You were _never_ -"

Richard yanked the stopper out of the kettle's mouth.

"…Think that I wouldn't need-"

The human body, particularly skin, is very bad at handling high temperatures. Another shriek filled the house.

Richard's new neighbor glanced up from his garden, slightly annoyed.

"I wish he'd stop brewing so much tea, or at least get a quieter kettle!"


End file.
